


La Cabale des Séducteurs amoureux

by Wallissa



Series: La Cabale Universe [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (but like...via letters), Alternate Universe - Historical, Baroque AU, Bastards in Love, Dirty Talk, F/M, Les Liaisons Dangereuses AU, Letters, M/M, Misogyny, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rococo AU, Scheming, Tommy Shelby is a messy bisexual slut, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: In the golden years of powder and crinolines, two scrupulous social climbers with dubious morals and extensive sexual appetites dance around each other, hiding their true feelings behind schemes and re-tellings of their sexual adventures.While Tommy Shelby has decided to marry into a noble family and is thus trying to seduce a Russian heiress into falling in love with him, Alfie Solomons is enjoying "tutoring" a young nobleman, waiting for an opportunity to expand his network. When Alfie learns about Tommy's plans, he writes his on-and-off associate an inquiring letter and the two start to entangle themselves and their surroundings in a web of manipulation, half-truths and sexual tension.A Les Liaisons Dangereuses AU.(Please read the Notes at the beginning for additional warnings!)
Relationships: Alfie Solomons/Other(s), James/Alfie Solomons, Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons, Tommy Shelby/Other(s)
Series: La Cabale Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741525
Comments: 15
Kudos: 50
Collections: Sholomons Prompt Fest 2019





	1. Silk Flower and Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019) collection. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
> A Les Liaisons Dangereuses type AU, epistolatory or otherwise!
> 
> -
> 
> The Original Prompt (it was deleted and re-installed) read: "A Les Liaisons Dangereuses type AU: told all in correspondence, Tommy and Alfie are rival social climbers fucking their way through all of high society, writing to gloat to each other and realising that they’re the only ones who are the perfect match <3"
> 
> -
> 
> Now: This is? Kind of nasty? I feel? PLEASE be aware that Tommy and Alfie are not particularly nice in this and use the people around them shamelessly. Tommy's apparent "girlfriend" (if you can call it that) in this chapter, for example, doesn't even have a name and is objectified by both of them. Neither of them are particularly malicious, they don't insult the people they're sleeping with, but they absolutely don't treat them with respect.

_**20th November 17xx** _

_Dearest,_

_Yesterday, I was overwhelmed with the tender desire to see your sharp, bewitching face again. So what I did, was I made my way over to London to watch one of those bleak little plays they put on at your sinful little theatre. I think it was Shakespeare, but the real tragedy was that the prompter was apparently too busy trying to glance under the dusty skirts flying by to do their job._

_Everyone was fetchingly pale, although a good deal of that paleness was dusted on the shoulders of their dresses by the end of the first act - even all the way up in my box the scent of powder mixed with floor wax still tickled my nose. The stage was so sticky with the latter that your little silk flower lost her little shoe during her last appearance, like a mothball-powdered Cinderella. Thus, Desdemona’s last steps were rather undignified, but luckily the audience was so captivated by her little foot that no one paid much attention to her stumbling and yelping. Apart from that, her untimely death was quite euphoric, in my opinion, but I understand it must come naturally, what with being spread out on a bed with a big paw on her throat. There was a delightful amount of moaning and sighing and begging involved, a very fine performance._  
_Everything else was dripping in the scent of sweaty velvet and the scent of extinguished candles, with just a hint of burned hair. So, all in all, it was just as expected._

_Except for the obvious, of course. Imagine my disappointment when I went to her crammed little Boudoir to congratulate your little flower on her sweet calves and catch you with her, only to have her tell me that you’re off to that Russian palace again._

_Now, considering that I couldn’t taste the slightest hint of your bitterness in her and that she was quite unsteady on her one remaining shoe even before I could properly help her with her lace shawl (one of the cheep ones, too, it barely covers her rosebud-pink when the bright stage lights illuminate her), I assume that you’ve been gone for at least a week._

_So is he finally dead, then? What happened?_

_Your silky little thing sighed against my neck that you’re trying to get married, of all things. What game is that, you impious little nightcrawler? I have to admit I laughed when she said it, but she was really quite serious about it, powdered cheeks flushed, thighs tensing._  
_Poor taste, Darling, to leave that little thing to mourn your engagement on her own. Be reassured that I consoled her as she moaned and cried._

_So I wonder – does she know you at all, your new mistress? Does she know about your theatre and your little flower with her nectar-dripping petals? Does she know you’re a fucking whore?_

_Write to me, you know I’m always intrigued by your conquests._  
_I’m currently not at home (it was terribly rude to not be present when I came all this way to see you, by the way. I was so cross, I bruised your poor little flower up. She looks like she’s been mauled by a wolf. Sounded like it, too), so send your letters to the address below._

_With all due respect and many thanks for the hospitality I enjoyed from your little girl,_

_A.S._

_P.S.: I wonder – your new mistress, is she as cold as her husband? I don’t think I’ve ever had a Russian before. Does your tongue stick to her skin like cold metal?_

~*~

The late afternoon is slowly bleeding into dusk and Tommy has to step closer to the window to finish reading. Earlier today, when the maid had handed him the envelope, he’d recognised Alfie’s handwriting and slipped it up his sleeve, where it had rustled with his every move, making him jittery with anticipation and nerves. Of all the people that could put him in at risk in this delicate operation, Alfie is certainly the worst, but unfortunately also the one Tommy values most.

Now, he half considers throwing the thing into the fire to watch the paper tremble like butterfly wings and crumble into ash. Before he can move to do so, however, there’s a knock on the door.

Tommy turns on his heels to face the tall window again, his back to the fireplace, eyes on the frost-glittering park outside, the silent, empty fountain. “Come in.” While turning towards the opening door, he lowers the letter.

Illuminated by the last greyish-gold of the afternoon, Tatiana steps into the study, her dress shimmering like silver-black ink. When she turns to close the door, Tommy’s eye catches on the powder-soft back of her neck.

He thinks of cheap lace palled aside, a hand in his hair, the taste of powder and hot skin. The little mauled-sheep sounds, the scent of lavender. He folds the letter.

“I’m late, I take it?”

Tatiana turns, steps towards him. The gentle almost-sound of her feet on polished wood, rustling silk. “Yes, terribly. Your aunt asked me to send for you.” 

The first hint of roses reaches him, soft and sweet, velvet-warm. With each step she takes, the room seems to shrink around her, the tall windows and high ceiling pressing in, an almost oppressive in their glittering opulence.

Tommy is acutely aware of the sofa by the fireplace as she passes it, her fingertips tracing the embroidery. Cream coloured curves and delicate wooden feet. “You didn’t send for me.”

“I sent myself.” The warmth of her voice, crackling fire and purring cat, almost irritates him. It prickles down his spine and he wants to turn, shake it off. “I didn’t want to risk one of the maids distracting you from your work.”

She’s close, silk-shimmering and ink-black and rose-sweet. “Is it good news?”

Tommy glances down at the letter, soft sighs and the scent of floor wax sticking to the dark blue cursive, “Nothing of importance. A note from my gardener.”

She’s too close, the hem of her skirts brushing his shoes. He busies himself folding the letter, her eyes hot on his cheekbone, his mouth.

“Gardener? Do you have no one to oversee your matters while you are away, that a gardener has to write to you?”

The paper rustles softly as Tommy folds it into the inner pocket of his vest and he thinks of rustling cotton, golden rings glinting in candle light. Soft thighs slipping over that dark wool coat, underneath to wrap around – well, _his_ hips. “He’s tending to a flower of mine and wanted to tell me about its progress.”

“Oh?” Instead of following that soft exhale with his eyes, Tommy looks at a curl next to the delicate shell of her ear, glistening chestnut. “It must be a very special flower then. Is it very precious?” A curious, amused tint in her voice.

Tommy feels the gleaming wood under his feet, smells the leather and paper of the books in the shelves behind him, sees the light glitter and catch in the mirror over the fireplace, its gilded frame. “No,” he says with a little smile. “Not a precious flower at all. A very ordinary one, as a matter of fact. Its value is purely sentimental.” He meets Tatiana’s eye, lets her return the smile. “I think I wouldn’t mind if he kept the poor thing.”

At that, Tatiana laughs, the sound glittering in her bracelet, the chandelier over their heads. “I’ve heard that you English had a passion for ordinary plants, but I wouldn’t think you’d miss tea over it.”

“We certainly don’t,” Tommy says earnestly and lets himself be led to the door, drawn by glimmering silk and sparkling jewellery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!!
> 
> As always, I have a few things to say :')
> 
> Firstly: it's only going to get worse from here.
> 
> Secondly: I remembered how poisonous all that powder/make up was. We are ignoring that. This story takes place in an alternate universe where all make up was perfectly save :) - this is especially important to me since I wrote a drabble a few weeks ago that took place in this AU, featuring Tommy and the good old "oh no! My husband is coming home! Quick, put on my dress and a wig!" trope. And then he goes to the opera w the girl and her husband. Because he's a cocky little shit who's too full of himself. (Naturally, that's where Alfie spots him). Anyhow, you can read it [here](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/post/189478698795/7-a-theater-at-midnight-golden-jewelry-a) on my tumblr! :')
> 
> Thirdly: I'm not a native speaker and I'm very sorry that I can't use the adequate language for the time. I haven't read baroque/rococo literature in English as far as I remember, so I fear the vocabulary isn't very accurate. I'm still trying my best and I hope it doesn't lessen the experience. 
> 
> Again - thank you so much for reading!!! This chapter felt really short when I wrote it in my physical fanfic-notebook, so I finished the second chapter as well and am planning on uploading it hopefully tonight :)  
> I hope to see you again in a few hours, and in the meantime, Kudos would be a great way to keep me motivated (eyes emoji) 
> 
> See you in a bit, lovelies! (or on [tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com), if you'd like!)


	2. Mirrors and Curtains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we are!!! It's 3am but since I didn't go to sleep it's still TECHNICALLY the same day, right??? :')  
> the lengths I go through to not meet my own goals... :'))
> 
> TAGS: frottage, Alfie and Tommy being objectifying again, memories of carefree homewrecking

_22nd November 17xx_

_Solomons,_

_She had no business giving you my address, but I’ll assume you’ll be more careful with it. Next time you see her and think she needs a shoulder to cry on, feel free to help yourself, since I’ll be out of the country by then._

_Regarding this letter – burn it, eat it, keep it to yourself._

_The husband sure took his time, at some point I was tempted to help him cross the threshold myself. But yes, he’s out now, and the aftermath is taking longer than anticipated. Unfortunately._

_Your estimation was right, it’s been about ten days since we arrived this time. Over the last 12 months, we’ve been here a handful of times, but I don’t think you were ever directly affected by my absence. Last time, if I’m not mistaken, you were busy with the Aston affair? Anyhow, it was too delicate a matter to talk about at that point in time._

_Now there’s not much to show it, though, and time is running out. Even with Polly here, I can only justify my presence for so long, or the slow progress with the dead man’s papers will raise suspicion._

_That’s why I’m here, remember that. Paperwork for me, condolences for Polly. I trust you to speak in my favour should it come up._

_I’m treading unfamiliar ground. The game is honesty and while I’m more than ready to settle and play at being a good husband and all that, the lady of the house isn’t ready to be settled again._

_No ice, I wish that was the problem. She’s pushing in too quickly, now that the man is out of the house, practically clawing at me to push in as well. I wasn’t prepared for this eager a widow._

_If it were just that, just another mistress, I wouldn’t mind too much – I’ve done their papers, he’s paid me once, she can pay me twice. But I’ve done their PAPERS. Russia is cold and you’ll take three days to understand what the lot’s saying (not to mention the maids, who won’t shut up, but there’s no use in even attempting to understand that), but they’re positively dripping._

_Palace is the word. The whole place is French, built this year and for this stay specifically. The floors gleam to rival the mirrors and tall windows, it’s easy to forget whether you’re facing the real garden or its reflection, dizzy with all the sparkling and gleaming. Porcelain and silk walls and golden frames on tasteful French allegories, and that’s not even the papers, is it?_

_Absurd, the whole affair. I’m trapped in a jewellery box, trying to keep my hands off the little ballerina. But she’s aware of it, she holds the reins and knows it._

_It’s Arabian Nights, but with reversed roles. Everything is dripping in gold, there’s a dead husband and an insatiable widow. And I’m spending 1001 nights telling stories._  
_Cold, I wish._

_I have her breathing down my neck with her roses and silk and brown eyes and I’m locked in with my hands bound. If it’s too easy, she’ll move in and spoil my plans._

_Pulling back every time she’s pushing is wearing me thin. Last summer, I spent two months on that dancer. You remember her, Camilla. Now, I have no idea how she did it. If it’ll take me two months before I get to repay this woman, I’ll_

_something._

_At this point I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ve never tried so hard to resist someone I wanted. So whatever you say, I’m the most proper gentleman._

_You wouldn’t believe the hell she puts me through. She wears those fashionable sleeves, showing of the soft, perfumed bend of her elbow and the most delicate lace you’ve ever seen. And in mourning, no less. You’ve never seen anyone wear black like that, shimmer and sweet, contrasting with her cream-sweet throat. The death of her husband truly becomes her._

_At this rate, I don’t know how I’ll go on for ten more days, let alone two months._

_But she has to give in first, doesn’t she? It all depends on that, on her being open for that damn marriage. I can’t even fucking t o u c h her._

_What are you doing? Write me about anything. The weather, if you have to._

_Where are you? Sounds like you haven’t been in London for a while, either. Tell me, write me._

_T.S._

_P.S.: I didn’t mean to miss you in London. Do you have reason to want to speak to me? There’s no shortage of dances in the following weeks, write me which ones you’ll be attending. The perks of my current situation include that the widow is eager to mingle, but unable to do so without companionship. All doors are open to me – which makes it all the more frustrating that I can’t enter hers. T.S._

~*~

Fog presses against the window and snow is smothering the ivy brushing against the stained glass. In the dim, flickering light of the fireplace, the figures on the tapestries seem to move, deers shaking their furs, flowers and grass tangling in the half-dark.

When James sits up and stretches, a book tumbles from the settee and lands on the carpet with a dusty “thump”. Not that Alfie cares, not when the blanket is pooling around James’ hips and the light flickers into his open collar. 

Before he can make a move to get up, Alfie reaches for him, his palm warm on cotton, thumb on skin. “I’ll be cold.”

At that, James laughs, resting more of his weight on his left knee and thus almost slipping off Alfie’s lap. “Cold? Do you want another blanket?” 

To make sure James stays seated where he is, Alfie quickly slips his hand down over the swell of his arse, into the crook of his knee, silk under his palm. He pulls, causing James to lose his balance, reach for him, fingers digging into his shoulder. When he leans in to stabilise himself, Alfie uses the opportunity to push his face into the open collar, lace brushing his cheek. A hint of salt, a taste of soap.

“I’m afraid that won’t help. I’ll need some sweet, tender heat to warm me up-“ He squeezes his thigh, his arse, and James’ laughter hitches.

“No, absolutely not. Not again, we won’t get any work done.” But his hands tangle in Alfie’s hair, his chest is flushed under his mouth.

“You were terribly diligent yesterday and we can go over your papers after tea-“ Alfie tilts his head a little, the soft-hot swipe of his tongue just barely missing James’ nipple, and he thinks he’s won. 

But despite his soft intake of breath, despite the tremble in his thighs, James pulls back again. It’s a sudden, unexpected move, and before Alfie can tighten his grip on him again, James loses his balance and tumbles onto the carpet with a rather undignified yelp.

Alfie sits up, ready to help him into his feet and apologise (lines not to be crossed, tempers to be indulged), but James places his foot on Alfie’s knee and leans back onto his arms, glee still sparkling in his eyes. 

“Stay back, seductress,” he says. Terribly ironic, since his curls of gleaming ebony are falling into his face and his shirt is almost slipping off his shoulders, revealing more of his kiss-wet chest. “I remember your promise! Macbeth, today. We can’t spend all day entangled like climbing roses.”

“Actually,” Alfie says, tickling James’ foot to make him laugh and spread his thighs a little, “we can. It’s a terribly educational practise, Love. Remember the Greeks.” 

James looks thoughtful and his cheeks are pleasantly flushed, so Alfie, not ready to spend his afternoon reading Macbeth if much sweeter pastimes can be arranged, pushes. “Enjoyment of worldly pleasure is vital to any sort of education.”

This time, James hums, frowning a little. But when Alfie gently tugs on his ankle to pull him in, he moves in willingly, his foot slipping up Alfie’s thigh. He lays back to look at the ceiling, his pale skin contrasting nicely with the green-gold of the carpet, the flicker of the golden fire. “Worldly pleasures,” he says, letting the words drip from his mouth like honey. 

“Yes. Food, drink, clothes, dances-“ Alfie watches the slow rise and fall of James’ chest, the sharp cut of his cheekbones. “Mingling with likeminded people for light-hearted pleasure.”

At that, James sighs again, head tilted to lose his gaze in the tapestry, where the last century clings to every deer, every flower. Macbeth is, at least for the moment, forgotten. “I suppose that would be pleasant. But whenever it is mentioned – dancing, mingling, the like – the context is usually to find a suitable – “ He waves a lazy hand, dissolving the unsaid words into thin air.

To make him sigh again (and with more pleasure, this time), Alfie squeezes his ankle, his calf. “That would be exhausting, my Love, not educational.” He softens his voice, slipping in a little hint of apple-sweet persuasion. “You don’t need a formal dance held in your honour, that’s not what I envision for you. How are you going to enjoy yourself if everything rests on your pretty shoulders? No, what I’m envisioning is a masquerade ball, Love, a bal masqué as they hold them in Paris.”

At that, James seems to shake off his mournful slumber, his eyes flicking up to meet Alfie’s. “Have you ever been to one?” His voice is soft, eager. Greedy for news that don’t taste like fresh ink, that aren’t pressed between unfeeling pages.

“A few, Dearest. I’m sure you’d love them. The air is thick with rose and lily and lavender, the scent of hot wax and silk. Great mirrors and floor-length windows that reflect the glitter of the candles and the jewellery of the guests. A treasure box, Love, you’ll think you’ve stepped into the cave of the forty thieves. When dawn melts through the windows, your eyes will hurt from the shimmer and sparkle of those diamonds, the golden frames and champagne glasses. And your ears will ring with laughter and chatter and music.  
“But you see, Love, the masks are what make it so special an amusement.” He lowers his voice, watching James suck on his lower lip, caught in glittering dreams of Paris.

“When you’re wearing a mask, no one can tell who you are, of course. Naturally, that grants you a certain amount of personal freedom.” Alfie traces little patterns on James’ calf, slipping his fingertips over the delicate inside of his knee. “And with all the dancing and the wine, your veins are filled with molten gold, your cheeks rose-flushed. So you step aside, wander around a little to cool yourself. In the gardens and corridors, the air is refreshingly cool and gentle, and many dark corners await. Here, you meet the masked Fauns and ghosts, peeking at you from behind thick curtails or fragrant yew tree hedges, waiting to pull you into silk-walled alcoves or moon-soft pavilions.”

James releases his poor, red lip in a soft little gasp. “Really? Such things happen?” He asks, more to encourage Alfie to tell him more than to question him. Alfie, kind as he is known to be, indulges him.

“Yes, of course. It’s almost reckless, walking too far from the crowd, since at any moment, a hand might reach out and pull you in.”

Here, partly for effect, partly out of his own greed, Alfie gives James’ ankle another sharp tug, dragging him the last bit over the carpet. His shirt slips up to reveal his stomach, his ribs, and he lets himself be pulled, flushed and dreamy,

With anyone else (ebony hair, sharp cheekbones), Alfie would’ve used this vulnerable position to push his foot between those spread thighs, the tip of his shoe against the boy’s hot-throbbing cock. 

But despite it all, the big eyes and the hot-eager sighs and the soft mouth, James still a blue blooded young gentleman. He may be a dreamy little thing, but he’s a pureblood, and Alfie knows better than to push it too far.

So he reaches out instead and helps James climb back on his lap, letting him settle like it’d been his own idea instead of part of a plan. “They’ll pull you in, Love, and you’ll be trapped in one of those quiet little hiding places, all alone with a masked stranger who’s eager to put his hands on you –“

James presses closer, his cheek soft and hot against Alfie’s neck, his breath tickling his collar bone.

Alfie, sweet as he is, puts his palms on James’ hips, slips them under his shirt to make him tremble with the brush of his fingertips. Such a sweet, well-bred young man, melting like sugar in hot tea at soft, harmless little stories of a tame, silk-rustling rendezvous. Alfie is half-tempted to overwhelm him, give him a taste of the smoke-drenched, wine-dripping bacchanals far from the glass- and mirror-glittering halls.

Rooms with stained floors and playing cards strewn on long tables, unbuttoned collars and stained lace. Alfie remembers Camilla, her flushed face, a curl slipped from her coiffure and sticking to her gleaming shoulders. Pink-hot lips trembling and the first hint of a bruise blooming on her bosom where her shawl had slipped aside. (Cotton parting under his hands, his teeth gently scraping over a pink-hard nipple)

He remembers the heavy steps of Camilla’s husband, broad-shouldered, red-faced. _’I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him!’_ (Fists tightening in his hair)

He remembers the dusty-warm dark behind a heavy curtain, Tommy’s palm on his mouth, fingers still wet, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. His trim waist in Alfie’s grip, his teeth glittering in the dim light. (Alfie-

Alfie pulls James in and kisses him. And while the pure-bred Lord melts in his arms, he remembers the taste of a well-protected little dancer, licked out of the mouth of a cunning, greedy scoundrel.

“You know –“ he says once he pulls back, licking his lips and then James’, for good measure – “we ought to take you to a ball. It’s not proper that you haven’t had a taste of that yet.” His hands tighten on James’ hips and he feels the hot exhale as he pushes his thigh up. 

“A proper ball, masks or not, without a task to fulfil, a wife to find.” To soften the blow of that reminder, Alfie guides James’ hips, gently forcing him to grind against his leg. Even through the layers of their trousers, he can feel the heat of his cock, despite his earlier coy coquetries.

“What do you think of that, Love?”, he asks, reaching out to pinch James’ nipple, startling him into an answer. 

With a hitched little moan, James presses closer, then swallows before speaking up. “Yes,” he says in a breathy-soft voice, “I would like that.”

Proper little thing. “You would? I’m sure you’d enjoy yourself, Love. As a matter of fact –“ Alfie uses his free hand to squeeze his arse, terribly self-indulgent – “I’ll make sure you do. It’s my responsibility that you get a proper taste of the world, after all.”

James kisses him, sweet and needy and messy, but Alfie isn’t done yet. His mind is spinning, names whirling around. ‘Harlington Park’, he thinks dimly, ‘I haven’t been to Harlington Park in a while.’

It could be useful. Old connections, new opportunities, these things. He’s always terribly successful on formal amusements such as this. “What about Harlington Park, Love?” The words are half-swallowed by James’ greedy mouth, so he pulls back a little.

James whines, nods. “Yes, that sounds splendid, I’m sure there are balls being held at Harlington Park this time of the year.” He swallows, licks his lips, a little out of breath. “Christmas festivities, I’ll- I’ll ask.”

Alfie smiles brightly. Obedient, docile little sweetheart. As a reward, he leans in again, pushing his tongue into James’ mouth. His blue-blooded scholar makes the sweetest little sound and grinds down again. Alfie pinches his nipple one last time and slips his hand down to rest on the small of his back, feeling the smooth, practised rhythm with which he moves.

Harlington Park is a good choice, he thinks dimly. He was going to go back at some point, anyhow. Might as well do it now, while he’s still here and can utilise his position to slip in unnoticed. 

With that, Alfie finally lets James reach between his thighs, rewarding himself for his own plan. When James wraps his poet-soft hand around his cock, he briefly remembers the flash of a sharp smile in velvet-soft darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) thank you very much for reading! I hope you're enjoying it so far! 11 chapters is awfully long, I know. Usually I would've tried to limit myself to 5 chapters at most, but sadly, I couldn't make it work that way, since I have to balance the plot development with the format, and only so much can happen in one letter. Does that make sense?  
> I hope it does.
> 
> Anyhow! James!!! I had no idea the actor is appearing/will appear on the Crown. Good for him! I literally just found that out while doing my googling to remind myself what he looks like (taller than Tommy by a long shot, it's so cute. Short kings.)
> 
> This whole thing was very fun to write, Tommy all whiny about his sexual frustration while Alfie just straight up spends his days indulging in sin with this young Lord. Also - it's interesting to think how they would write to each other and I hope the letters didn't sound too similar to each other (since I'm writing both sides...). This is a new format for me, and again - I'm sorry about the language, as mentioned I'm not a native speaker and my contact with english rococo/baroque literature has been...limited. I try!  
> (Also my angle is in general that Alfie is more educated than Tommy, or at least values education more and is thus ready to educate himself on such dry themes while Tommy is more of a hands-on person. Alfie is more philosophically inclined, basically. At least in this fic.)
> 
> ALSO! While writing, I got really into the whole Camilla story, so if you'd like a little extra, a little drabble on how Tommy and Alfie end up hidden behind some curtain in some dubious and promiscuous house, don't hesitate to hmu and I'll whip it up! :'>
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, since there are so many prompt in the fest that I'm interested in. Still, here's my (rather vague) [upload schedule](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/post/189867740835/wallissas-upload-schedule-january-2020-for-this) for this month, if you're interested! 
> 
> If you enjoyed those first two chapters, please consider leaving a heart or even a comment! :) They're incredibly motivating and brighten my day a lot!! <3  
> Until next time!


	3. Writing Desks and Greek Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Tommy's getting slutshamed by both Polly and Alfie in this one. Well-deserved and lovingly, but still.

_**24 November 17xx**_

_Dearest,_

_Thank you so much for your sweet little letter. I could hear your clipped professional nonsense with every rustle of that delicate paper. Pretty, but very dry. Very you. For a moment, I could almost smell your scent, Love, pressed between the lines. “Deception and Sandalwood” it’s called, I think._

_Your future wife seems to have quite the grip on you. Reading about you suffering on your knees for this hot, demanding lady filled me with delight, I have to admit. What a shame that you can’t fill her the same way._

_What a fate. You’ve never seduced anyone in your life, have you? Only put your hands in various treasure chests and licked you fingers clean after. And now look at you._

_Although I can’t say that I’m surprised that you’re trembling at the sight of a soft elbow – you have no subtlety, my Dear, you drool and shake with greed. It’s only natural that something out of reach makes you feral like this. I wish I could see it, the flush on your cheeks, the greedy shine in your eyes. You know I love the times when you stop pretending to be a subtle, scheming seductress, you cheap whore._

_But I’m kissing your wrists, Love, I’m only teasing. Next time you’re shaking at the idea of warm black silk, think of me and think of the good cause you’re suffering for._

_You described a very sweet treasure chest and after all, it’ll be yours if you hold back for long enough. An ocean of foaming-soft white down to play in, French windows and Russian kisses. Or Russian gold, that should be more to your taste._

_I’m currently getting my chin wet in a treasure chest of the opposite kind. No glittering chandeliers and tall windows, but tapestries and stained glass. At night in bed, you can feel the breath of the Tudors tickling the back of your neck._  
_Well, maybe it’s not that ghostly and surreal a touch, considering all the hidden doors and secret corridors in places like this. Narrow staircases, old-smooth stone, perfectly intimate for a late night rendezvous. Flickering candles and rustling nightgowns._

_No hot Russian widows, either. They don’t breed that kind here._

_Instead, I have this docile, fresh-faced, fluttery little Earl. Tall and skinny like a birch, you’d laugh. Hands like big, uncoordinated butterflies, always fluttering around aimlessly. But he’s sweet, Tommy, like warm milk. Dark curls, white chest, flushes easily. Put that on those French engravings and sell it. Absolutely delicious._

_I could tell him I need a writing desk and he’d hold still to offer me the milk-sweetness of his back, smothering his face in stained sheets. You could smell that purebred English Rose on the letter, and if my writing would get sloppy, you’d know my hand started wandering or my little desk started trembling. Whatever comes first._

_But I’d never do that, of course. I’d never tease you this cruelly while you’re so close to your silky-hot mistress, tied up and mouth watering._

_So, let’s distract you. The weather here is cold and wet. Misty in the mornings, pressing against the windows. Just like back home, then, minus the scent of horses and mud and whatever else you call homely, you Birmingham creature._

_The fog isn’t as rotten as the one in London, though. My stomach churns and my back aches just thinking about that sewage river._

_That’s enough of that._

_What am I doing? On paper, I’m teaching this little blueblood some classic education, some philosophical thinking. It’s good money, better connections and excellent fun._

_James – that’s his name. Royal alright – is an great study. You should watch him do Greek, he’s got just the tongue for it. Hard to find such studious creatures down in the streets. Insatiable thirst for knowledge, that’s what that is._

_But you have to be studious, right, when there’s a lack of natural talent. And what’s Greek in comparison to horseback, right, Love? Which is to say –_

_You ask me whether I had reason to want to speak to you in London? What kind of question is that? I haven’t seen you in a while, that’s all the reason I need. Seen and all the other four senses._

_I’ll be in Harlington Park on the xxth. Dear James has family there, some cousin business or the other, and I could use the connections. Will I see you there? I’d hope so. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you dressed up in silk and embroidery, I’ve almost forgotten the taste of your powder, the shape of your stocking-clad calves._

_I would love to see your enchantress as well. Use the chains she’s wrapped around you and drag her here, if you must._

_Write me, will you?_

_A.S._

~*~

Tommy folds his arms in front of his chest to stop himself from fidgeting. It causes the letter he folded into his breast pocket crinkle and he makes a face, turns his head to watch the rain outside, pearls against the window.

His collar and the cuffs of his shirt are still wet, the scent of rose water clings to him. Still, he feels uneasy, hot. Angry, maybe. 

“Would you focus?”

“I _am_ focussing.” He turns back to face the desk, where Polly is reading a letter and taking notes on a separate piece of paper.

She looks up briefly to give him an unimpressed look. “If you were,” she says, voice dry as the paper she’s folding back into its envelope, “you’d be married by now.”

Tommy frowns, his gaze flicking to the ink pot, the vase of flowers, back to Polly’s hands. “I know what I’m doing. It won’t take much longer.”

“You know what you’re doing? So running around like a prissy-desperate little tomcat is part of your plan? Short of howling at her window at night, are you?”

At that, Tommy’s frown deepens. He thinks of bare feet on old-smooth stone. Nightly rendezvous. “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m taking it slow.”

“So not asking her to get on her knees and hold onto the headboard is your idea of taking it slow?”

Now, Tommy turns back to the window and frowns at the rain. “It’s seduction. There’s an art to it.”

“Seduction? You haven’t seduced a single person in your life, Tommy. You don’t know how to seduce, you only know how to fuck.”

Tommy sighs. He rolls his shoulders back, then concentrates on keeping his voice even. “It’ll be settled when we go to Harlington Park.”

Polly raises her brow at him and lowers here quill. “Harlington Park? What are we doing at Harlington Park?”

Eyes still fixed on the park outside, green vibrant against the grey sky, he recites his little speech. “They’re holding a ball in a few days and we’re going. It’s a very prestigious, very elegant family and the place is known to be very beautiful. It’ll be the right atmosphere. They have orange trees in their ball room and free-roaming peacocks. It’ll set the right mood and she’ll be enchanted to the point of giving in.”

He can almost smell the orange trees, the candles and Tatiana’s perfume. Feel her hand on his arm, see her sparkling eyes. It’s a brilliant plan, in his opinion, and one that would only ever work in Harlington Park. 

“Oh? And who will you meet there?”

The question is so unexpected that Tommy turns to look at her again. “Who will I meet there?”

She gives him an unimpressed look. “Well, whose letters do you stuff your sleeves with? You didn’t think you were subtle, did you?”

Heat rushes through him. When he pressed his arms tighter against his chest in a subconsciously defensive pose, there’s another tell-tale rustle. “Solomons wrote.”

The sound Polly makes at that is one Tommy doesn’t like at all, a smug little _“Ah.”_

“There’s nothing to it. I just didn’t want her to think anything about those letters.”

“I thought it was part of the plan. You trying to play hard to get.”

True. Tommy shifts his weight a little. In fact, that would’ve been a good plan. Too bad he didn’t think of it. Since it’s too late to change his mind now, he only hums and hopes she’ll let it go.

There’s a brief, rain-filled silence while Polly waits for his answer, then she sighs and glances at her notes. “So what is _he_ doing at Harlington Park, then? Watching you get engaged to a Russian noblewoman?”

Tommy exhales and looks at the wallpaper. Peach-pink with a flock of exotic birds fluttering their colourful wings up to the stucco ceiling. The scent of Alfie’s letter is still prominent in his nose. Ink, mostly. But also a hint of something else. Warmth, his dry laugh, the soft shape of his mouth, pressed between sheets of paper, poured into his handwriting.

Tommy thinks of powder and soft elbows and cold Russian gold. “To congratulate me, you mean. There’s some kind of family business he plans on getting involved in, as always.”

There must be something in the tone of his voice, since he can feel Polly’s eyes on him. He is, however, looking at a green-blue bird of paradise.

“Oh?”

“He’s at some family estate now.” Tommy pauses, thinking of rumpled lace, the scent of warm wax, kisses blooming on milk-pale skin. “Proper old, I suppose.”

Polly hums. “Well, if you ask nicely, he might give you some tips on proper seduction. Sounds like he’s quite successful at it.”

Tommy spins to look at her, cheeks hot with anger. “I’m not-“ He shakes his head, opens and closes his mouth. Nails digging into his palms. “I’m _not_ –“  
With that, he huffs and walks briskly to the door, one hand already on the knot of his necktie.

“Yes,” Polly says behind him. Voice calm, the clink of a quill against the inkpot. “Go and drown yourself in your wash basin again. I’m sure that’ll help.”

Tommy – He’d close the door sharply, had he come as far as opening it. Instead, he walks briskly back to the table, slamming one hand on the glossy wood. “ _What_ do you want?”

Polly looks at him and the calm coldness of her expression is enough to melt the uncharacteristic anger. “I would like you to get a grip on yourself and stop wasting everyone’s time.” She puts down her quill, eyes still on Tommy. “I would like you to concentrate on what we came here to do.”

“I _am_ concentrating.” Now that the anger is simmered down, it’s mostly aimed at himself. His cheeks, however, are still pink. “I’m just a little homesick.”

“Homesick?” Polly’s eyes are very cool. “And that’s why you’re writing Solomons?”

Tommy thinks of a warm hand on the small of his back, his thigh. Solomons in his rooms in London, wearing only a loose shirt, fabric pooled on his lap. Sipping that sharp-sweet wine Tommy saves for him and doing impressions of the people he worked for. Making Tommy laugh, pulling him in by the hip, asking him to stay. Warm hands and cotton and sharp-sweet kisses, Solomons’ mouth wine-cool.

“I suppose he reminds me of London. Must be the stench of the Thames.” With that, Tommy turns again. As he leaves, he closes the door very gently behind himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for reading!! I know it's been a terribly long time, but the last months have been really hard for me and I lost all drive for a good while. However, now I'm slowly getting back into the habit!!! :) Thank you so much for your patience <3  
> Also - I do have the whole thing planned out, I know where we're going etc. So there's no need to worry about me suddenly abandoning the project! :) I was just slow, I fear.  
> (I also always feel super super guilty about answering comments late, but please please know that I see them all and I appreciate them so much and I sometimes just get overwhelmed and can't find a good response and then I'm embarrassed to answer since it's been so long. But I love you so much, thank you <3 <3 <3)
> 
> I do plan on putting out a little extra something, next Monday at the latest :)
> 
> Now, as for notes
> 
> The writing desk thing is taken straight from Les Liasions, I simply couldn't resist.
> 
> Also I love this chapter so much tbh? Everyone calling Tommy a slut while he grumpily can't think of a comeback..I had a lot of fun. 
> 
> And yes. The "Greek" James has a talented tongue for is a vague reference to ancient greeks having a lot of gay sex, but here we say it's oral. So Alfie went "he gives good sloppy toppy but nothing beats you in reverse cowgirl, babe ;)" and Tommy blushes like a sweet maiden. Romance...
> 
> That's all I have to say! I love Polly!!
> 
> As always, you can find me on my [writing tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/) if you'd like! :)  
> Please stay safe during these difficult times, Lovelies! I hope you and your loved ones are healthy and in a good place :)  
> See you next time and again - I love you, thank you very much <3


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